


A little trust

by TheMagicMeep



Series: Trust and a lack thereof [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMagicMeep/pseuds/TheMagicMeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scotland shows off her baking skills and France fears for his kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A little trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonlighten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/gifts).



This, France thinks will end in a disaster.

But he could hardly say no, even though he had been far from sober and Scotland had been giving him the _eyes_ when he had agreed to it _._ He had to hand it to her, for such a terrible liar she was terrifyingly good at manipulation. Or perhaps he was (as England had suggested gleefully) just a massive sap when it came to a certain red-head. 

In his experience the cooking of the British siblings and Ireland left a lot to be desired and giving one of them access to his kitchen was not really something he was looking forward too. But he had agreed to give Scotland a chance to prove herself and if he goes back on his word now his life won’t be worth living for the foreseeable future.  

On the bright side he hadn’t heard any horror stories about Scotland’s cooking, in fact Canada had often insisted that his aunts baking was very good. Although Canada loved his aunt Scotland dearly and Frances highly suspicious mind supposed that it was possible that he could be biased. He dismissed the thought that Scotland may have bribed him to say it, in his experience Scotland was about as subtle as a brick and bribery was unlikely to have ever crossed her mind. 

But as he watched her work France realised that Scotland did at least appear to know what she was doing, which was comforting, even if there was no sign of a recipe and her method of measuring out her ingredients seemed rather haphazard and unreasonably messy to him. 

Still the fear for his kitchen was hard to dispel and in a last ditch attempt to soothe his nerves he had broken out the wine – Scotland kindly pretended not to notice. But she wasn’t exactly easing his fears by wearing an apron which proclaimed “If it ain’t burned it ain’t done!” and brandishing a bottle of whisky about.

She put up with his repeated offers to help and worried glances with a better grace than he had expected. Although ignoring him did seem to be taking its toll, judging by how much of the whisky was going missing and Scotland’s expression which was starting to lean dangerously towards murderous. 

But it was only when he began hovering nervously around right behind her so he could peer over her shoulder that Scotland finally cracked.

“Look” she began irritably, crossing her arms in front of her chest “I’m not going to burn down your kitchen or poison the cat, so how about you stop breathing down my bloody neck?”

 France still hesitated so Scotland changed tack. She turned around and fixed him with the biggest green eyes he’d ever seen “you don’t think I can do it, do you?”

There really was only one real answer to that which wouldn’t either extinguish any chance that he still had of getting laid tonight or cause him to be beaten over the head with a cake tin. This was to mumble an apology and retreat quickly into another room grabbing a bottle of wine on the way.

But even as he sat down, trying to enjoy the warmth and the fact that he wasn’t out in the cold and freezing rain (that he was convinced Scotland had somehow brought with her) with book and a glass of wine, he still found himself straining his ears for the sound of dropped pans or the fire alarm- both of which seemed to be a permanent feature of England attempting to cook in Frances experience.

However there was a distinct lack of any sounds heralding a catastrophe and after a while France began to relax, listening to Scotland bustling around the kitchen and her surprisingly tuneful humming. The smell of whatever she was making was also quite nice, he had no idea what it was as Scotland had pointedly refused to tell him- she said that she wanted it to be a _surprise_.

All he knew for certain was that it smelled good and –judging by the fumes- contained possibly lethal amounts of alcohol. France even found himself beginning to drowse in his comfy chair, half listening to his neighbours radio  which for some reason was turned up far too loud and thinking about a certain Scotswoman who had stolen his heart and convinced him to let her loose in his kitchen.

Scotland snapped him out of his doze some time later by swearing loudly and kicking something. France was up and in the kitchen faster than he would have thought possible, to find Scotland running her fingers under the tap and muttering curses under her breath “I burned myself” she grumbled without looking at him “off that damn _tin_ ” .

It was reassuring to know that despite Scotland’s surprising abilities in the kitchen that she still was clumsy, it made him feel less like he’d stepped into an alternate reality (which was fast becoming an alarmingly common occurrence). 

 “Let me see” France sighed holding out his hand, Scotland huffed but let him see what she’d done to herself this time. It really wasn’t a bad burn; she’d had worse and a nations fast healing would get rid of it in no time. But it still hurt, so he gently pressed a kiss to her wounded hand and watched with amusement as Scotland blushed bright red and looked away.

The cake itself looked fine; but it was clearly the result of no recipe that he recognised.  Scotland had obviously managed to mostly finish it before attacking herself with a hot cake tin. “Go stick some of those almonds on it would you?” she requested, hauling the apron off and nodding her head towards the toasted almonds.

“What is it?” France wondered as he tried to add the almonds to the cake in an artistic fashion, ignoring Scotland rolling her eyes.

Scotland smirked at him “it’s a cake” she said slowly, because she was rarely happier than when she was being a smart arse. France scowled at her “what type of cake?” but Scotland was now busy searching through his cupboards and didn’t answer.

France was willing to bet the cake contained more whisky than the recipe actually had recommended as the fumes hanging about the kitchen were beginning to make him feel lightheaded. He coughed and tried not to breathe more than was absolutely necessary.

“Am I getting coffee with it?” he asked hopefully, the Scottish nation shook her head at him and gave him a friendly shove in the direction of the coffee grinder “make your own coffee”. She snorted at his resulting pout “don’t give me that! You always winge when I do it!”

France couldn’t argue with that.

But making his own coffee was no real chore, he loved the smell and he actually knew how to make it _properly_.  Scotland did keep a stock of his “fancy” coffee and tea at her own house even though she didn’t drink it herself. She claimed she did it to keep him from going on some kind of rampage due to lack of caffeine. France kept some of her tea in his house for much the same reason.

“Do you want a cup of tea _mon cher_?”  

She shot him a smile “aye, that’d be lovely”. As he waited for the water to boil he watched warily as Scotland looked for a knife to cut the cake. Really in his entire existence he had met few nations (or humans) capable of being as clumsy and prone to running headfirst into trouble as Scotland was. France just didn’t understand it; Scotland was a master at fighting with all manner of weapons, a woman who was that capable should not accidently cut her fingers while cooking on such a regular basis.

The moment that Scotland eventually found a knife France casually plucked it out of her hand and ushered her out of the room before she managed to hurt herself again. She just sighed and let herself be gently pushed out of the room. He really should have been suspicious at the lack of argument but he was just happy to have Scotland away from the sharp/hot things and to have his beloved kitchen to himself again.

By the time he had cut the cake, without doing himself grievous bodily harm in the process, and made the drinks Scotland had settled, or more accurately _sprawled_ all over his pristine cream sofa. She looked up briefly as he entered and took the steaming cup of tea and piece of cake he offered with muttered thanks, scooting along to allow him to sit down beside her. France sighed, breathing in the wonderful rich smell of his coffee and accidently inhaling whisky fumes.

He looked on in a kind of horrified fascination as Scotland wolfed down her own bit of cake in a matter of seconds, as he watched her lick her fingers clean he had to force down the desire to do something that defiantly didn’t involve eating _cake_. “I take it that it tastes good then?” he asked finally and Scotland just grinned at him proudly, showing off her dimples and making his heart do a strange sort of flip.  

France gave his own bit of the cake a look, it didn’t look awful and that fact that it didn’t seem to be burned black was heartening so he tentatively took a bite. It was surprisingly good and France found himself devouring it then trying to peer into the kitchen without Scotland noticing to see if there was any more.

When he chanced a look back at Scotland she was smirking at him over her mug, “so I guess you enjoyed that then” she drawled looking far too pleased with herself for his liking. But his grumbled assent did bring out another rare smile which made actually admitting to _liking_ any of her families cooking less upsetting.   

“So” Scotland purred, snuggling into his side with a truly devilish grin on her face “am I allowed back in your kitchen again?”  

France sighed as he wrapped an arm round her “ _oui_ , of course” he said, before adding “but none of these “deep fried mars bars” in my kitchen if you please _Ecosse_ ”

Scotland punched him in the arm.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never actually tried the cake that Scotland made but I found it while researching and when I looked at the recipe it just appealed to me.
> 
> Here it is for those who are interested 
> 
> http://www.rampantscotland.com/recipes/blrecipe_honey.htm


End file.
